In the Shadow of the Arch

by Robert J. Randisi

  "Then why didn't you?"

  "I couldn't think of a good explanation as to why I let Brady's case be taken away from me."

  "How about you didn't have a choice?"

  "I didn't, actually," he said. "That is, I wasn't given one. I could have argued, but-"

  "But you're new in town and at that job, and it wouldn't do to rock the boat just now. You know, all of that is understandable."

  "It is?"

  "Sure. I didn't get stubborn about my job until I was there a year and they realized they couldn't do without me."

  "I don't know if the Richmond Heights Police Department is ever going to come to realize that."

  "Well," she said, as the waiter appeared with their dinners, "at least I know it wasn't because you didn't like me."

  "You don't have any worries there."

  ***

  After the show they stopped at a place called The Bistro, which catered more to the after-theater crowd.

  Valerie informed Keough of Brady's progress.

  "He's been placed in a foster home, for now."

  "Do you still see him?"

  She nodded. "From time to time, to check on him. Has Detective Jackson made any progress?"

  "He and I don't talk much."

  "Don't get along?"

  Keough shook his head. "He doesn't like New York detectives."

  "And you don't like detectives from St. Louis?"

  "On the contrary," Keough said, "he's the only one I've met that I dislike. Most of the men here are all right."

  "Does that surprise you?"

  "No, why should it?"

  "Well, being from New York…"

  "Ah," he said, "why does everyone think that I came here with an attitude?"

  "Is the New York attitude a myth?"

  "Probably not," he admitted, "but so far I'm very happy here."

  "Does that mean you like it better than you liked New York?"

  "Not quite," he said, "but I'm willing to give it some more time."

  ***

  After drinks at The Bistro they walked across the street to the parking lot where they had both left their cars. Keough found himself wishing they had come together, in one car. It would have made this part much easier.

  "I had a great time," he said, when they reached her car. "Thank you for inviting me."

  "I've made the first move," she said. "Next time you have to call me."

  "Maybe I should just make the next move now."

  He moved closer to her and kissed her. He meant it to be brief, but held it long enough to make it more meaningful.

  "Well," she said, her eyes shining, "that's a start, anyway."

  He opened the door for her and watched her drive off, then walked to his own car. He wondered if he should have made a stronger move, maybe suggesting a drink at his place or hers. He decided that he'd played it right. She was pleasant to talk to, and lovely to look at, but he really wasn't looking for a relationship at the moment. He was still too new to the city, and to his job. He still had lots of unpacking to do. He'd gotten all of his kites and paraphernalia out in the open, but hadn't had a chance to put any of it to use, yet.

  That's what was missing, he thought, as he drove home.

  He'd been finding of late that he was having trouble concentrating. In the past he'd always been able to put a kite in the air and take the time to sort things out.

  It was September now, and he decided to spend his free time over the next couple of days tracking down a place to fly his kites. Then he'd be able to figure something out about these dead women, and the babies in the Dumpsters, and maybe he'd even devote some of that time to Brady Sanders, even though he was no longer officially involved.

  33

  The dead baby showed up on Saturday.

  Keough was up early that morning. It was his intention to find a kite shop and/or a club, and he was gathering together some of his kites, tails, and spools of string when the phone rang.

  "Keough."

  "It's Steinbach."

  "I'm off today-"

  "They found the other baby."

  Keough closed his eyes.

  "Dead?"

  "You called it."

  Now he opened his eyes and looked away from his kites. No relaxation today.

  "Tell me where…"

  ***

  Keough stood next to Steinbach and the two men looked down at the remains of the baby. Amidst the refuse it looked like a doll-a child's discarded, broken doll.

  "It was a boy," Steinbach said.

  "Yeah."

  "Can we remove it now?" one of the coroner's crew asked.

  They were all taking this badly.

  "Go ahead," Steinbach said. He and Keough turned and walked away. All around them was trash, sorted into piles to be dealt with one way or another. It was while sorting the piles that the baby had been found.

  "Okay," Keough said, "so the third baby has shown up. Now what about the third mother? Why is he keeping her so long?"

  "Maybe he's not," Steinbach said. "Maybe she's just gonna be hard to find, or be found by accident, like this baby. Maybe the two women we've found are numbers two and three, or one and three, or… who the hell knows?"

  Keough looked up at the sky and felt the breeze swirling around, carrying the stench of garbage with it.

  "Today would have been a good day to fly a kite."

  "Sorry," Steinbach said, "but I thought you'd want in on this."

  "I do," Keough said. "I want in on the whole thing."

  "You're gonna get your wish."

  Keough looked at him.

  "What do you mean?"

  "A task force," Steinbach said.

  "You're kidding."

  "I'm not. My boss and your boss talked today."

  "This early?"

  "They were called even before you. They want a task force formed to find the other missing mother, and the killer, before he hits again."

  "Who's on the task force?"

  "You and me…"

  "Good-"

  "… and Jackson."

  "Oh shit."

  "He's the top homicide man in the city, Keough," Steinbach said. "He's got to be on the task force."

  "Who's going to be in command?"

  "We'll report to my boss," Steinbach said, "Captain McGwire. We'll work out of our building, where we had the meeting."

  "I'm not catching any cases in Richmond Heights?" Keough asked.

  "Not anymore," Steinbach said, "not until we catch this guy. Looks like the brass believes you now, Joe."

  "A serial killer."

  Steinbach nodded. "He's not just killing women, anymore."

  "I'm not so sure."

  "We've got a dead baby on our hands that says-"

  "No, I mean I'm not so sure he killed this child on purpose," Keough said, cutting him off.

  "You think this was an accident?"

  "Well, look at the way the other two were found," Keough said. "Lying right on top of the garbage. What if this baby had been placed the same way, and somebody just didn't see it?"

  "You mean somebody dumped some garbage right on top of this infant without seeing it, and it suffocated?"

  "Something like that. Do we know how often they sort this trash?"

  "No," Steinbach said. "Some of it came in today, some of it could have been here for weeks." He sniffed the air. "You can tell that."

  "Yeah." Keough started to look back to where the baby was being bagged, then stopped himself. "Let's go someplace else and talk, huh?"

  "Fine with me. How about the Parkmoor?"

  Keough knew where the Parkmoor restaurant was because it was only about half a mile from the Richmond Heights station.

  "Maybe by the time we get there I'll be able to keep some breakfast down," Steinbach added.

  "Fine with me," Keough said. "I can stop by the station afterward."

  "You need to follow me?"

  "Naw, I'll find it."

  "Okay," Steinbach sai
d, "meet you there."

  They went to their individual cars, left the garbage dump, and headed for Richmond Heights.

  ***

  The Parkmoor restaurant reminded Keough of some he had frequented when he lived in New York. It was the closest he'd seen to a Brooklyn diner since his arrival in St. Louis. It had been a St. Louis landmark for over fifty years.

  They got a booth in the back with a view of the intersection of Clayton Road and Big Bend Boulevard. They ordered coffee and breakfast, both opting for eggs and toast and whatever else came with it.

  "Does Jackson know about the task force?" Keough asked when they each had coffee.

  "Not yet."

  "Who's going to tell him?"

  "McGwire."

  "When does this task force officially start?"

  "Monday."

  "Am I getting paid if I work the weekend?"

  "Not if you're supposed to be off. You're back on salary Monday, like normal."

  Great. If he wanted to work on the case today and tomorrow it would be on his own time. Getting a kite in the air was getting further and further away all the time.

  "Did you get my message yesterday?" Steinbach asked.

  "Yeah," Keough said, "I was going to try to return it today."

  "After you flew your kites?"

  "Something like that. Did you want to talk about the malls?"

  "Yes," Steinbach said. "What did you find out?"

  Keough told him what he'd found out, pausing only when the waitress appeared with their food. He finished up with his interviews with Deb Morgan and Kate Fouquet.

  "A dead ringer?" Steinbach asked.

  "Not facially," Keough said, "but physically, yes. They are all the same exact type."

  They stared at each other for a few moments.

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Steinbach asked.

  "Decoy?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Do we have a female cop who looks like that?"

  "I'll have to check into it."

  "What did you find out from the malls you visited?"

  "Nothing from Mid-Rivers," Steinbach said, "but that might be too far away for him. A woman reported a man following her in the Northwest Plaza Mall."

  "He didn't attack her?"

  "No," Steinbach said, "apparently he followed her until she went into the covered parking, then broke it off."

  "Covered parking," Keough repeated. "The women I talked to were attacked in the surface parking lots."

  "Maybe he doesn't like covered parking."

  "Maybe," Keough said, "and maybe it's even stronger than just not liking it."

  "A phobia, maybe?"

  "That's what I'm thinking."

  Steinbach made a face.

  "You've been through this task force stuff before," Steinbach said. "We're going to have to bring in a shrink, aren't we? And the Feebs?"

  "The FBI would supply one of their shrinks or profilers, but yeah, you're right-although we could probably put it off for a while. Would Jackson go along with that?"

  "To tell you the truth," Steinbach said, "I can't tell you what Jackson will or won't go along with. He and I usually go our separate ways. Why would you want to put it off?"

  "I hate all that psychobabble," Keough said. "They usually tell you stuff you already know. He wet the bed, was abused by a family member-"

  "-or a mother's boyfriend, or something like that."

  "Right," Keough said, pushing his empty plate away. He had one last piece of toast and he started smearing grape jelly on it.

  "What are you thinking?"

  "Bear with me while I talk it through, all right?"

  "Shoot."

  "We got a man who likes blondes in their late twenties to middle thirties, good-looking blondes who are in shape, but who are also young mothers who are pushing their babies in strollers."

  "Okay."

  "He snatches them at malls, but he doesn't like covered parking lots. Maybe there's a little claustrophobia going on there."

  "Okay," Steinbach said, again.

  "He leaves the babies in Dumpsters, probably so they'll be found alive."

  "Again, we're assuming this one died by accident."

  "Right."

  "Go on."

  "This new one aside, why didn't he kill the babies? Why leave them alive?"

  "Why not? They can't identify him."

  "That's true, but I think it's something else."

  "Like what?"

  Keough hesitated, then said in annoyance, "I don't know. Some sort of-" He made a face. "Psychological explanation. Let's go onto the women. He keeps them a while, sexually assaults them, then kills them, leaving them in different places."

  "He has sex with them alive," Steinbach added, "and dead."

  That stopped Keough for a moment. "I didn't know that."

  "It's in the report on the second woman."

  "Bite marks?"

  "Yep," Steinbach said, "he's a biter."

  "What we don't know," Keough said, "is if he kills the women on purpose, or in the act of having sex with them. Maybe he doesn't mean to kill them."

  "You're giving him a lot of credit."

  "On the contrary," Keough said, "I think we're dealing with a stupid man here."

  Steinbach sat up straight. "Oh, explain this one to me,

  Sherlock. You mean you don't think we're dealing with an educated man? I mean, that's sometimes part of the profile, isn't it? Educated, thinks he smarter than the police? I've read some of the books, too, you know."

  Keough shook his head, warming to his subject.

  "No, I don't think he's smart at all, Al," Keough said. "If he was he wouldn't be taking the chances he's taking."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, like attacking the dark-haired woman because she got in his way," Keough said. "He followed her out to the parking lot just to hit her. That's not smart at all. I mean, he let her see him. If he was smarter than us he wouldn't have done that."

  Steinbach rubbed his jaw.

  "You're right about that. If he was smart he wouldn't let her see him and then leave her alive."

  "Exactly-and that reminds me. We've got to get an artist with a sketch pad or an identikit to these women."

  "I'll take care of that on Monday."

  Keough sighed. "I guess we'll have to meet with Jackson on Monday and fill him in on what we have."

  "That should be interesting. You know, he's going to go one of two ways."

  "How's that?"

  "He's either going to want to be in charge-with McGwire as the figurehead-or he's going to want to go off on his own."

  "That would suit me," Keough said. "I can work easier with you than with you and him-and we've got a head start on this. Let him go his own way. Maybe he's good enough to catch this guy on his own."

  "You don't want the credit?"

  "I just want the crazy bastard caught, Al. Jackson can have the credit-or you. I'm not worried about that part of it."

  They left the tip, split the bill two ways, and went up front to pay it. They paused outside in the parking lot.

  "Is this task force going to make the papers?" he asked Steinbach.

  "That's something we'll have to talk about on Monday with Jackson, and the captain."

  "If he knows we're after him, he might stop."

  "Isn't that good enough?"

  "No," Keough said, "he's got to be caught. What if he moves to another city, or another state, and just starts again?"

  "I see what you mean. All right, we'll talk about it Monday. Try and enjoy the rest of your weekend."

  They split up and got into their respective cars. Steinbach drove off and at the last minute Keough decided not to go into the Richmond Heights station, but to simply drive home.

  34

  When he read about the dead baby in the Sunday paper, he sat down in the middle of the floor, crossed his legs, held his head in his hands, and rocked.

  This wasn't supposed to happen. His m
other was going to be very angry with him. He was supposed to be looking out for his little brother. How could he have let this happen? It wasn't his fault… it was the baby-sitter's fault… that little blond bitch… she was supposed to be watching…

  Then, through tears of anger and frustration and fear, he suddenly realized the truth. He was not a child, he was an adult. His mother was dead, and his little brother was alive, living in another city, in another state, a very successful businessman.

  This dead child was not his brother, was not even related to him. No one was going to scold him or blame him. It wasn't his fault the little boy was dead. He had disposed of him the same way he had the others, and they weren't dead. They'd been found, the way they were supposed to be. It wasn't his fault that something had gone wrong.

  He stopped crying, stopped rocking, and got up off the floor. He took the newspaper to the sofa and read the article all the way through. Sure, he felt bad that the boy was dead, but it wasn't his fault.

  It was everybody else's.

  So there was no need for him to be concerned. He could continue to go out and do what he was doing, keep searching for the perfect woman, a cross between the women in the adult movies, and his mother.

  He stood up and walked to the coffee table, where he had some framed photographs of his family: his dead father, his little brother, both as a baby and grown, and his dead mother. In the photo she was smiling, her long blond hair blowing slightly in the wind, and she was pushing a stroller, which held his little brother.

  This was the only photo he had of his mother, because it was his favorite. She was never more beautiful than she was in this picture. He stared at the photo, touching the glass of the picture frame, and then frowning. This was his mother, wasn't it? It could have been the baby-sitter. No, no, what was wrong with him? This was his mother. The baby-sitter, though young and blond, had never been as pretty as his mother.

  Never.

  He put the photo back down on the table, next to the mail-there was another bill from the video place, again, for the tape he'd never returned-then turned and walked to the kitchen.

  It was early, and now that he was over the initial shock of the story about the dead baby, he could make himself something for breakfast.